We must be living right

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood....

Remember I said the forecast for yesterday's Salida Christmas Bird Count called for a low of -5 F and a high of 14 F?

Well!

Imagine everyone's surprise when we got up before 6:00am and found it was 24 F! I checked first online (there's a Weatherbug station at the local middle school*). Didn't believe it. Hit the refresh button three or four times. It still said 24. So I groped around in the dark until I could find the temp gauge for outside the house. It said the same thing!

(*When school isn't in session, the site often defaults to the Monarch Pass station, 3000+' higher than town. Not useful unless you're going skiing.)

Probably people who get to do their CBCs in places like Florida and Texas shake their heads at those of us who are happy for start temps below freezing... but I think this might have been the balmiest start for us, ever. The lowest point of our circle is at about 7000' elevation, and parts of it are probably at about 10,000'. (Methodist Mountain elevation is over 11,000' at the summit, and we have a hearty team who hike the Rainbow Trail across its northern face for the count each year.) Teams in the higher elevations still had cold and wind, but NOT like we expected. Hooray!

In all it was a good day. I haven't run the numbers yet, but it looks like we had 74 (*nope, 77!) species, which is typical for our count. A couple of interesting birds new to the count: Lewis' woodpecker and two species of Rosy-finch. Finally! We knew the little buggers had to be here somewhere! My dear friend Tony found them and got some pics... hopefully I'll get him to send copies. In the meantime, a nice Lewis' woodpecker shot by Randy Hancock....

Many thanks to our local Division of Wildlife office, which sponsors lunch for our counters and whose officers participate in the count (often driving volunteers into hard-to-access areas of our forest-ridden count circle).

Ritual insanity

My kitchen table is strewn with papers covered in these odd ritualistic markings: a circle, some numbers, some wavy lines, some colored blotches. What can it all mean?

It means that at oh-dark-hundred tomorrow morning, when the forecast calls for a balmy -1 F, bundled and binoculared crazies will gather to crawl over stream and under shrub in search of feathered wonders.


Yup. Salida Christmas (Solstice) Bird Count is tomorrow. Get out your woolies and your insulated hot beverage container.

One more week!

Winter Solstice looms lovely and comforting on the horizon. Next weekend is also the annual Salida Christmas Bird Count (yours truly, compiler)-- I always try to align those two events in meaningful constellation. The count and the solstice also usually coincide with the birthday of my friend and fellow bird-counter Randy. It's a tripley celebratory sort of day.

We just have to get there from here.

Yesterday was No-Rest-for-the-Wicked Day for the DM, who had two gigs back-to-back. Can you find the Chapman Stick player in this crowd at Apogee Studio (DM gig #2)? It's like "Where's Waldo?" for musicians.


And, hm... someone a while back noted (gently) my tendency to post less-than-clear photos if my mug is present. It's my personal manifestation of mid-life crisis: I generally hate photos if I'm in them. But here we are, in front of a lovely quilt by Lori Isenberger, at her exhibition opening at the Paquette Gallery (DM gig #1).


I, of course, spent both gigs schmoozing with friends and eating entirely too many holiday sweets. But, OOOOOOH! Look what I got:

This lovely box is by Betsey Downing. The lid is covered with hollyhock, piñon, maple, and mountain mahogany seeds. Delightful! I was all set to acquire it for myself when my dear friend Jacque intervened and made it my holiday gift. Sneaky, she is.


Supporting local art ventures was still on my mind, though... so I also brought home this nifty little "mini screen" by Fay Golson. (sigh) I love having good stuff around, don't you?

Christmas Bird Count, the morning after

It's that time of year again: temps below 0 F, snow on the ground, bitter wind..... Must be time to go birding!

Sometimes I think the mental condition that drives the citizenry of Pamplona to run before angry cattle must be the same as that which drives birders. Why else would otherwise reasonable people be out standing in snow-covered fields before dawn in sub-zero temperatures to count ducks and sparrows? Worse yet, there's a considerable subpopulation which does this for many, many days in a row in late December and early January, and they travel far and wide to do so.

Yes, indeed, it's Christmas Bird Count season, and Salida is not immune to the phenomenon. Five years ago I was duped by a hardcore birder chum into hosting a count circle here. "If you compile it, I'll come," he said, implying the presence of a certain level of expertise and experience to get the job done.

Said chum has never ONCE shown his sorry behind here for the event. You can imagine what sort of holiday cheer I send HIS way. (Yes, Woody, this means you.)

Still, we have a grand and dedicated group of local birders and a few equally dedicated out-of-town stringers who routinely DO turn up to tromp around the area and tick juncos until their heads spin. This year's Salida count was yesterday (I always aim for ours on the winter solstice).. with snow on the ground and a -1 F start temperature. Despite a slow start, we managed to record 75 distinct species, a goodly number of interesting subspecies, hybrids, and anomalies AND a record-breaking flock of Bohemian Waxwings.

We don't see BOWAs (for those of you hip to the Bird Banding Lab species codes) here every year. They're avian gypsies, typically found farther north, but once in a while we have a winter graced by BOWA spectacle. This is one of those years! They've been turning up in many parts of the state, but as far as I have heard, yesterday we hosted the largest single flock yet discovered: almost 2000 birds in one place. All total we found over 3000 of the handsome beasties within our count circle. On Friday I looked out my front window to find 1100 of them working the crabapple trees in my yard and across the street. Friend, expert birder, and accomplished photographer Tony Leukering was here for the CBC, and he took the great shots enhancing this page. You can see more of Tony's fine photos on his Flickr site.

A week from today I'm off to spend January in my new satellite studio in that most delightful of winter destinations: Cleveland, Ohio. So. The next few days will be chock-a-block with trying to get organized for the egress. Just in case I miss you in all the hubbub, let me offer warmest wishes for your winter holidays and your heart's desire(s!) in 2008. Expect news from the north after the first of the year!

Best foot forward

I've been spending quite a bit of time staring at my feet lately.

The snow storms of the last few weeks have made treks around town quite interesting, especially as the regular thaw-and-freeze cycle makes each journey different from the last. Watching my feet is a sort of exercise in self-preservation, although I confess I have still landed on my behind more than once.

As I've focused on the placement of my feet upon snow I've seen the tracks of animals, people, skis, bikes, and cars. Interesting patterns of ice. Crusts of frozen slush castles. My wet bootlaces. Feathers of birds-become-meals. And today, a dollar bill. (One of those a-typical rewards for being observant.)

Yesterday, however, I remembered how to look up.

Friends gathered from near and far for our annual Christmas Bird Count, and we were out at first light to tally up a sense of the fortunes of the feathered mortals. Oh, BRRRR! The time-and-temperature sign at the bank proclaimed 0 degrees Fahrenheit as we headed to the first stop at Sands Lake.

The lake was a wonderland. Mist rose from the surface in great clouds and froze in crystals on every twig, blade, and stone. Ducks and geese were floating spectres, appearing and disappearing in the fog, their heads tucked over frosted backs and down between wings. (It wasn't a scene particularly conducive to identifying and counting species, mind you. We decided to come back later.)

We spent the rest of the day distracted by every little movement, every odd shape in tree or shrub or sky, every chirp or squeak or chip. Nearly 300 pinyon jays swirled over a house on a hill-- a blue and gray (and much more raucous) echo of the earlier lake mist. A lone northern harrier quartered a barren field. Juncos perched on deck railings. Nuthatches bounced downside up through the trees. When the sun disappeared in the west we were still out, peering through the darkness at a great horned owl's silhouette just visible at the top of a power pole.

73 species and copious amounts of pizza after that first ethereal goose, we called it a day. One more look up, into the red-cheeked and weary smiles of my friends, and then? I only had eyes for my pillow.